A tour around Italy
by Otsu
Summary: What happens if a young Fersen steps into a mysterious palace in the Venetian Republic?


As usual, I apologise for my bad English. This is the translation of a fic I wrote in Italian a couple of yers ago. I don't know why I've waited so much to upload the translation... Nevermind. Fersen does not belong to me, neither do Versailles no bara. Damn! -_^ This manga masterpiece is a creation of sensei Riyoko Ikeda, to whom I pay all my respect ^_^  
Last advice: I'm playing at home, since the fic is set in the places where I live, but Villa Caliari doesn't exist (but the others that I mention are really there). Even the whole "grand tour" stuff is possible, but I don't know if real life Fersen had ever travelled around Italy - I just know that he spent his teenage years studying in different European countries, but it was quite usual for rich men from northern Europe to take a vacation in "the country of Renaissance and of blue skies". It's fall and I don't see a "blue sky" since an eternity but, you know, stereotypes don't die easily. By the way, let's assume that this is Berubara Fersen and that he had really gone to Italy, ok? And now, on with the show.  
  
  
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A TOUR AROUND ITALY  
  
  
The boat was slipping silently on the water of the calm Brenta, going upstream. It was a little anonymous boat, especially if you think it was carrying the young Count Hans Axel Von Fersen.  
It was 17... and Fersen went to Italy for an educational tour. He arrived to Venice from the south, and he stayed there for a few days, hosted by the noble family Venier; but it was summer, the air went hot and the paving stone ground did as well. Then Fersen decided to go in the hinterland with Lars, his servant, to join the noble Paduan family of the Barbarigos. And he decided to do that just paying a simple boatman, without paying attention to the etiquette for once. Lars weakly opposed; he saw danger coming on, but Count Fersen reminded him that he was the master, and then he was the only one who could decide what to do.  
"... you see, Lars" Fersen said laying in the shadow of a small tent set on the boat "... we are out of any danger. The river is calm, it's a wonderful day and so is the landscape. Look" he said pointing the bank "a villa."  
In the vegetation, they could see the back of a big villa, and, in the silence, they could hear voices from a distance.  
"If they told me right" Fersen continued "this should be Foscaris' villa. Yes, it is..."  
The boatman, who understood just "Foscaris" in the Swedish words, said:  
"Yes, it's Villa Foscari, people call it "La Malcontenta", "The Unhappy"... do I have to stop, Sir?"  
"It doesn't matter" Fersen said "going on with the boat is alright to me. For the first time I feel I'm really relaxing."  
  
Fersen slightly closed his eyes, laying on his seat. The sun was reaching its zenith, reddening a little his pale face. There was almost no wind, hardly moving the leaves. From time to time, the cicadas imposed their deafening chirping or they could hear only some bird's singing. At the side of the young Count's eyes the landscape was running, always equal and always different, changing from wood to fields and back. The blond color of the corn mixed with the red of poppies, the endless shadings of green, everything was blinded by the violent light of midday. But if air in the lagoon could be cleaned and dried by the sea wind, air on the plain was stifling heavy. It was like heat became solid and visible, entering hardly in one's lungs, showing itself as a shining veil laid over everything. Fersen felt like he was losing any strength, and he wasn't unpleased. Slowly, other villas appeared and disappeared, white and flattened by the sun. Villa Priuli. Villa Allegri. Querini Moro Palace, Mocenigo Palace, Gradenigo Palace.  
Fersen, or the boatman, recognized them and registered their presence in his mind.  
Fersen was going to sleep when, at his right side, he saw a villa he couldn't identify. Getting closer, he watched it better: it was a little smaller than the average, without shutters, windows as black holes on its white and flaked off front. Vegetation was growing wildly and some corroded statues, showing on the Brenta, reflected themselves in the river just like they were ghosts.  
"Which villa is this?" Fersen asked to the boatman, who shrugged his shoulders.  
"It was of the noble Caliaris', but I've never seen anybody living there."  
"I want to stop here..."  
The boatman and Lars turned looking incredulously at Fersen.  
"Are you sure? It's dilapidated... there's nothing to see."  
"Right!" Lars said back, but Fersen was decided.  
"If you don't prove me the contrary, it's me paying so it's me deciding. Sir, you can leave us here and you can go back home. We'll manage all the same."  
"If this makes the lord happy..." the boatman mumbled making for the old landing-place.  
  
Then, they were alone in front of the white mass of the villa. From close up it looked more impressive and they noticed that, together with wild vegetation, there were palms and plants that the two Swedish men had seen just in the South. They were clearly what remained of a garden of eclectic taste.  
"It looks like it came out from a painting" Fersen murmured while he was walking towards the entrance: the door had disappeared as well. That place attracted him irresistibly; perhaps because it was so unreal that it seemed like it came out from a dream, though not exactly a beautiful dream. Summertime exploding, sun at the top of its path, which should had given an impression of life, didn't do anything but emphasizing the decadence of the old villa. A feeling of suffocation, of death, seemed to surround each single thing; everything looked like it was trying to show the inexorable consequences of time.  
Entering in the dim light, for some long moments Fersen felt like he was blind. When his eyes adapted to the semi-darkness, he found himself inside a big hall with two wings on the sides.  
"At least here it's cool" Lars said watching around. Large mannerist frescos decorated the walls. The represented mainly mythological themes and they seemed quite well painted. Fersen touched one but he suddenly shrank his hand because the plaster flaked off under his fingers. He noticed the cracks in the walls, and the mould, the musk, the wet stains. There was still some furniture, but everything looked like going to rack and ruin. The young count remembered he was losing his strength, the weakness that already took him on the boat came back. He saw a little sofa, perfect for him.   
"I lay here for a while" he said to Lars "look, there is a sofa for you too, if you want."  
"No, thanks" the other replied "at most I'm going to lay under a tree. I don't like much this house."  
"Nah, it's wonderful " Fersen said lying down, with an arm on his eyes. More than falling asleep, he lost consciousness, deprived of every energy, falling heavily in a moist and someway unnatural sleep.  
  
When he woke up, he couldn't understand how much time he spent sleeping. The landscape looked the same as before, except for  
  
-for a detail  
  
He slowly rose his head, and he saw her. She was a very beautiful woman, standing in front of a window. She looked nearly thirty years old, and she wore an elegant dress, but curiously the sleeves had been ripped, so her arms were bare. The woman turned towards Fersen while he was standing up and telling her, bowing:  
"I pay my respects to you, milady."  
"Are you German?"  
The question surprised Fersen. It was rude but gently said.  
"N-no... I come from Sweden... I'm Count Hans Axel von Fersen."  
"So, you aren't German."  
"Em, I'm not."  
The woman's gaze was disquieting. Fersen, despite his young age, was used to have women's eyes over himself. The ladies used to look at him growing up, and they giggled:  
"Such a beautiful little boy. He promises delight."  
But that woman watched him in another way and didn't tell him anything like that; she seemed to follow her own secret path.  
"German musicians are the best, with the Italian ones; everybody knows it. To me, singing a mess by Bach is sublime."  
"Do you... sing?"  
"Yes, she sings" a voice said behind Fersen's back. The young man turned quickly. There was a man that, on the contrary, looked definitely older than thirty. He did wear elegant clothes as well, but, by watching them carefully, they appeared worn-out, in some parts quite torn. His thin hair was loose around his shoulders in greasy locks.  
"Agostino Caliari, lord of this villa" the man said bowing, and Fersen replied:  
"...Count Hans Axel von Fersen...."  
Caliari got nearer, smiling, with a strange rocking walk; he went beyond Fersen and he stood next to the woman, telling her:  
"Angelina, you didn't greet him."  
Angelina slightly bowed.  
"My wife was a great singer, do you know, count? Such a nightingale. A natural soprano. No teachers, no school: all in here" Caliari said hugging Angelina's shoulders, then he smiled or better smirked towards Fersen, and he fluttered a hand in front of his bride's eyes.  
The woman's look didn't change; not a blink. Instead, on Fersen face was growing astonishment.  
"..."  
  
she is blind  
  
Caliari nodded silently to confirm Fersen's thought. The young Swedish man began to think that maybe Lars was right, something was going wrong, and a feeling of uneasiness was pervading him.  
"Follow us, please" the man told him taking Angelina's hand "I'll make you see, or better hear, what my better half can do."  
How could he oppose? Fersen followed the couple in the next room, where the only object remained was a harpsichord. Caliari sit down at the instrument and played a sad music, while Angelina was singing:  
"Lascia più di tormentarmi/ rimembranza del mio ben... Don't torment me anymore/memory of my beloved"  
The music was great, well played and amazingly sung, but Fersen couldn't do without noticing the grotesque side of that scene. Nobles dressed in rags, in a palace that was destroying itself around them.  
Caliari stopped playing and talked to Fersen once again.  
"Well, Count! What about it?"  
"Marvelous!" Fersen said with a small applause. The man smiled.  
"I'm sorry, but I can't offer you anything, as you can see... But let me give you some company for a while. Nobody comes here."  
  
Damned Lars, where are you?  
  
"It's... It's alright" Fersen replied. He couldn't oppose once again.  
"I'll show you the garden" Caliari said taking him to the exit. Angelina, instead, was still sitting at the harpsichord, gazing in front of her.  
  
"Do you like roses, Count? A long time ago this villa was famous for its roses. Of course, now, they're not well cared as they were once..."  
Caliari had always that strange rocking walk. In the sunshine, the glossy fabric of his threadbare clothes appeared clearly.  
They arrived at a wall with a rusty gate; Caliari had to lift it up to open it and they walked into the old garden.  
Roses and wild grass had grown up together, untidily. Among them there were statues like the ones on the river. Sculptured in the limestone, they were eroded by the time and by the overwhelming nature around them. Some were so worn out that they seemed faceless. Where the features remained, they appeared steady, abstract.  
"But the weather is too warm for the roses" Caliari considered. Indeed the flowers were withering, the stained and open petals were swollen and chipped and colonies of ants were banqueting there. Even though they were in the open air, Fersen felt suffocated by that high wall, by the rotten smell, by the heat, by Caliari, who picked up a relatively healthy rose and began to talk again:  
"Many years ago, here we were rich, very rich. Agostino Caliari, when he was a child, saw endless dances, and parties, and banquets. Too much. Then, the ruin. Sometimes, you know, I think I imagined it all, because that shining past seems too far... The only thing left is the consciousness that everything is doomed to rot. This rose yesterday was beautiful, today it's a bit weak, tomorrow the worms will be eating it. Nothing escapes from this law, neither houses, nor men. This Republic itself is nothing more than the shadow of what it was when this house was built. What is this sea where it shows itself? A slimy pool. Everything dies, then even the nations. Demanding eternity  
is a presumption sin. Do you believe in God, Count?"  
"Y-yes" Fersen answered. He felt the nausea growing.  
"And have you seen other places, here in Italy?"  
"Yes... Naples, Rome... Florence... Siena, Bologna..."  
"A real grand tour" Caliari approved "you'll go west now, I suppose. But you traveled enough to know what I'm talking about... Did you see how much do the poor people believe in God, here? The peasants' processions? And the one that everybody does, where everybody goes, is the Via Crucis, where even God knows the pain and the decadence of the body."  
Fersen felt like his strength nearly failed him. The sun was stunning him. He staggered.  
"I don't feel well."  
Caliari kept on being cool-headed, always smiling with his anguishing smile.  
"Then it's better to come back inside. Go laying down."  
Like an automaton, took by some kind of fever, Fersen came back into the villa and laid down on the sofa.  
  
"Close your eyes and stay quiet" Caliari told him "you chose the wrong period to come here. Venetian summer is one of the worst in Italy. It's wet and there's no wind. Full of funerals."  
These were the last words Fersen heard before Caliari was swallowed by obscurity together with the rest of the world.  
  
When the young Swedish woke up, the sun was setting down, and the first thing he saw was Lars's face bowing upon him.  
"Count! I'm sorry, but it's late. A peasant told me there's a village not far from here... we're going to sleep in an inn, then tomorrow we could arrive to Padua, couldn't we?"  
Fersen sat up rubbing his aching head.  
"Uh... Lars, where had you gone?"  
"Well, I slept a little under that tree, then I took a walk as far at the road and there I found the peasant. He will take us to the village with his wagon."  
"Alright, let's go" Fersen said going towards the exit.  
  
It was late twilight when they arrived at the village. While they were preparing to sleep, Fersen asked Lars:  
"Listen... have you seen Agostino Caliari at the villa, by chance?"  
"Who?"  
"Or a blind, very beautiful woman."  
"I would remember her. Who are these persons?"  
"The masters of the villa."  
Lars smiled, trying not to look disrespectful.  
"Forgive me, but I think you dreamt it all and you never moved from that dusty sofa. The peasant said that villa is uninhabited since... a lot of years."  
"Yes, maybe I've dreamt."  
  
That night Fersen woke up several times, and when he tried to sleep he saw the imagine of villa Caliari and of its black windows, like blind and empty eyes, like mouths opened on the void.  
  
The day after they bought two horses and they decided to reach Padua by land. They went on slowly, that was why they started early in the morning, also to get the last cold hours. But when the sun was high again, they found themselves in another village. A funeral procession was going along the main street, as a silent black snake. Fersen and Lars were watching it from behind the corner of a house. Fersen felt weakness and nausea mixed with a subtle terror once again. He didn't understand, he didn't see the faces of those mysterious figures in black. They weren't many, but they were exasperating slow. A child was crossing the narrow street behind them; Lars noticed and stopped him.  
"Kid, tell me just one thing, who's dead?"  
The child, blonde and tanned, shrugged his shoulders.  
"A German man" he said, and he ran away.  
"Lars" Fersen said with choked voice "I'm sick."  
"There's an inn on the other side of the street, do you want go to refresh a bit?"  
"No, the best thing is starting again, and reaching Padua as soon as possible."  
  
They arrived at Padua in the evening light, and the Barbarigos received them very kindly, while the city was quietly going to rest and a light breeze was beginning to blow.  
  
"Everything is doomed to rot."  
  
Fersen, at the terrace, repeated in a low voice Agostino Caliari's words. Who was he? A dream? A ghost? A madman? Maybe the first hypothesis was really the right one. The memories of the day before were already vanishing just like dreams in the morning.  
Hans Axel von Fersen fondled the balustrade of solid stone where he was leaning on, watching the moon, which traced the outline of the roofs of the city. The white light and the cool air. The large squares and the idea of them full of bawling, living people. He cheered up; he could sleep comfortable. 


End file.
